


how to never stop being sad

by fallenangelicarus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Everything Hurts, Hurt No Comfort, Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) Needs a Hug, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Sad Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-28 00:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13892037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenangelicarus/pseuds/fallenangelicarus
Summary: the empty feeling. it won't go away.(aka an angsty garrison fic that literally nobody asked for or wanted)





	how to never stop being sad

the halls were cold.

not the normal kind of cold, the kind that could be fixed by a blanket and a cup of tea, but the kind that clung to skin like fine glitter, that burrowed and corroded bones like acid.

keith walked faster. whispers and murmuring followed him through the double doors into the east wing, peppering his hair with fine specks. 

he knew he was a mess. 

 

he had the misfortune of coming face-to-face with his miserable reflection in the bathroom mirror somewhere around 3 in the morning, and he was in no place to dispute the casual concern from his teachers.

his skin looked washed out, not even its previous pallor, but a greyish shade reminiscent of a once colorful cloth that had not quite been completely bleached.

violet eyes looked closer to grey now, a hazy morning and murky river waters near the place he couldn't remember growing up in.

if he tilted his head down at  _just that angle_ , he could see the green and purple veins crisscrossing beneath translucent skin, like layered spiderwebs.

 

keith was no fool.

he could see the way his military stance looked less powerful, and more like clothes hung on a rack to dry.

he could see the tremor of his hands when he drank the watery, lukewarm liquid served by the kitchens every morning. 

he could see himself fading.

 

all the colors in him and around him seemed to grey, and some days (the days when he didn't know what day it was or where he was or why he was here) he could almost see the ash escaping from his dry lips.

it was a decent metaphor, he supposed, studying the bones in the back of his hand absently.

 

it was fitting: his fire was going out, the embers flickering and dying.

the smell of woodsmoke seeped into the walls and the floor.

the drafts in the winter swept the floor in a fine coating of dust and ash.


End file.
